


The Joker: Year One; Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bat.

by dangerousboys



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:44:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerousboys/pseuds/dangerousboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was just a poor, confused, kid when he fell into that vat of chemical waste. And he was just a poor, confused, madman when he climbed out. He'd like to say he popped out of the vat a changed man, but the transformation was in fact a longer, more sinister process than anyone could have imagined. This is the story of his reconciliation with his creator. This is the story of a name, a suit, and a symbol. But most of all, it's a story of obsession on both sides. The Joker just hopes, in the retelling of his story, that you see the funny side of it all! It's not a sob-story. It's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joker: Year One; Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bat.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the prologue so far. If you like it, then you should tell me, so that I can write more! Haha. It's implied to be Bruce Wayne, but if you want it to be someone else, then it can be. The magic of interpretation, folks.

The Joker's always had a lot of stories to tell about his sordid past. They change and evolve over time, like he has, but there are still a few choice little tales that he hasn't shared with anyone. He can picture every book report of his own autobiography in vivid detail in his head, from the Abusive Daddy who took him to the Ice Capades, the Carnival, the Circus, and hit him afterward. But, these other "memories" scare him and frighten him. They contradict, but they feel so real... so /plausible/. They make him uncomfortable, and there's nothing funny about an uncomfortable clown, unless that clown is someone else. His other anecdotes reek of dramatic irony. These memories only reek of a certain cologne. They say the nose remembers better than the eyes. But The Joker can ignore the more realistic and plausible as long as he feels like, and he feels like doing it for a very long time.

 

(It always starts in a hotel room. The backstory is different, but it always starts in a hotel room. Sometimes your parents took you there, sometimes the tall, dark and handsome stranger did. Sometimes your parents were pimping you out to a wealthy, unnamed gentleman. Sometimes you were pimping yourself out. Sometimes you had met at a skeevy gay bar. Your least favorite version is the last. How boring. How odd. To think that you would willingly have sex with anyone besides The Bat and Harley! You were younger then, early 20s, sometimes only 16. You wonder idly sometimes when lost in reverie how you would've gotten into the bar at 16. But you know you were probably just as clever, just as charming. You probably could've gone and gotten into any club or bar. You probably could've been with any man, at any hotel. But you chose that one. Why?

Sometimes it wasn't your first time meeting the gentleman. Sometimes you had met before. When you saw him, despite the backstory, you touched him like a lost lover. He entered the room in shadows, an act that seemed so eerily familiar to you in retrospect. When his face was revealed, it was always different, but you were always so very, very happy to see it. A smile spread across your face, just as big and just as thrilled as your normal, manic smirk, but this time, more human. It spread to your eyes. It didn't crack at the scars on your mouth, because you don't have them. Those came later, although you're not sure exactly how much later.

You're sitting on the bed, criss-cross applesauce style, and have been for who knows how long. You pat the space beside you. "Come 'ere." You coo, and your voice is much sweeter than the current. Once again, more human, less spit. Is it higher, or lower... It's hard to tell, but it definitely sound less like a growl. You almost seem like another person, but there's still that spark inside you. You're still you, you know it. As he comes towards you, you take in his everything. The way that he walks, always the same. Shoulders back, chin up, like a model, like a God, like he's /floating/. The tailored suit, always different colors, always different brands, always hugging his waist just right. The power of money, you lick your lips. In all memories you have, false or real, false or maybe real, you were poor. Something about that suit, the things you couldn't have, made you yearn for this man, whether you were strangers, or lovers, or both. He presses his hands on either side of the mattress, leaning into you, and that's when you catch a whiff of that cologne, right before his lips press delicately against yours. But you're not having it, not just yet. He's going to have to work for it a little harder.

"My, my, what /is/ that exquisite perfume you're wearing?" You pull away from his lips, only an inch, and speak directly into his ear. The man rolls his eyes. You wonder every time when you remember this, how many times have you had sex? Not just with this man, but with any man? Or woman, for that matter... You imagine that even before your re-birth you were a bit of a wildcard. You shrug, pulling your shoulder to your ear. "Did you bring a rubber? No glove, no love." He winks, clicking his tongue against the side of his cheek. The man grits his teeth, and pulls a condom out of his pocket, and throws it onto the bedspread.

"Good boy," you drawl, your long fingers delicately trailing up his chest, settling on his tie. You begin to loosen it, the tips of your fingers brushing against his collar, when he pushes you back on the bed. That's the spirit! You act disappointed, pouting and acting coy, but he and you both seem to know that you're not one to take it slow. He throws his jacket to the floor, pinching the heels of his shoe with the other to squeeze out of them. You're somewhat amazed by the franticness of the gesture, looking up at him with surprise while you unbutton your shirt slowly, knowing fully well he'll take care of the rest. The man pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his muscular body. You loved his suit, but you're pleased with the urgency at which he takes it off, as well as the beautiful torso underneath. He shrugs off his pants, and you notice that he leaves his socks on. It's ridiculous, but you stifle a laugh. It /is/ a bit nippy in here, you suppose. Don't wanna ruin the mood before you get... whatever it is that you want from. That's still up for debate, and entirely up to interpretation, as per usual.

Finally, it's time for the boxers. You stop your meager attempts to undress yourself, to watch in mild fascination as he reveals his cock, standing at half-mast, gorgeous as it humanly possible to be. Even not at it's fully erect length, the girth is impressive. You lick your lips. Remembering this part always confuses you. You don't remember ever being attracted to random men before. Even if this one is particularly handsome and forceful. People change, you suppose. But the memory doesn't stop there. Of course not.

He practically rips off the rest of your clothes, possibly angry that you're wasting his time, possibly just ravenous with lust. Either way, your clothes are thrown across the room, hitting the wall with a smack. He's making himself hornier, you notice, as his cock continues to harden. You figure you're not doing your job, and lean up to kiss his neck, gently pressing your lips against the skin, smelling his scent, tasting every inch of him with your tongue, before biting down, hard. He gasps, and pushes you down, pinning your wrists down to the mattress. "Touchy, touchy..." You say. The man says nothing, trailing his gaze downwards to your own member. His gasp was all it took for you. He smirks, small and almost unnoticeable, but you can never unsee a smile. Not then, not now. That's just the way it is.

He slides on top of you, pressing your cocks together, rubbing and grinding against your hips. If you weren't hard before, you definitely are now. You moan and squirm like the slut that you are, and the man is very obviously living for it. He hasn't lifted his hands from your wrists, but the moment he does, you wrap them around his back. When the fire in your loins becomes to much to bear, you cry out. "Please!" And he does that little smirk again, which only sends more pangs down your center, and backs himself up, positioning himself at the base of your member.

The first lick sends shivers up your spines. You moan, licking your lips, and beg for more. He takes his time. The second, third, and fourth lick are all slow, but long, starting at the base and traveling all the way up to the head with definite skill. You can't take it. Finally, he takes the head of your cock in his mouth, sucking hard, and you buck into his mouth with wild abandon, practically choking him. He takes it, but he grabs your ass cheeks as you do it, scraping his nails into your backside. You hiss out in pain, and pleasure, a mix of the two that you find confusing and titillating at the same time. Gravity pushes you back into the mattress, but he forces you back into the recesses of his throat anyway, still clawing at your ass, your fingers curl, your back arches, you're completely thrown for a loop by how much pleasure you're receiving from someone richer than you are, handsomer than you are, more powerful than you are... and as he removes a hand from your ass to brush back a strand of hair that's fallen out of place, you come violently into his mouth. He laps every inch of it up, and kisses you. Your own taste springs to your tongue.

"Not bad," you say. "Not bad at all." The man ignores you, it's his turn now, and it's going to be great. He retrieves the condom from the mattress, and the lube from his coat pocket. The hilarity of this rich and powerful man carrying around lube just to sleep with you is not lost on you, but you ignore it. His cock is still rock hard. He spreads lube all over his index finger, practically slathering it. He doesn't ask for permission before spreading your legs and inserting his digit into your tight cavity. You struggle to relax, have that initial pain turn into pleasure, but it's clear this man could care less. He grunts, and inserts another finger. He presses his digits all the way in, turning them and twist them, until he finds your sweet spot. Your fingers dig into the mattress. That'd do it. You're completely open to the third and fourth finger. And when he finally sticks his cock in you, you feel so full you could burst. Here's where the real fun begins.

He pulls you closer to him, and the edge of the bed, pushing all the way inside you. You struggle to breathe. It's more difficult than usual. Maybe because you're so excited? He slowly and gently pulls out, before thrusting inside once more, gently still. You're still getting used to the pace a few thrusts later, when he increases the speed and roughness. He's slamming into you at this point, his balls slapping against your cheeks. He hits your prostate with a force you didn't think possible, and you scream out in pure bliss. You're both a mess of sweat and sex when he comes inside of you.

He removes himself, says not a word, and goes to shower. That's your cue to leave. Whether you've done this before and have been asked to leave at this point is unknown, but you leave anyway.)

That "memory" changed on a dime. But the walk and the cologne were always the same. Always. But he could never quite put his finger on whether it was real or a trick of his head. He was self-aware enough to know that his mind was erratic, even untrustworthy, but he couldn't pinpoint which was imagined and which actually happened if his life depended on it. Thankfully, it didn't. The Joker had one memory, and one alone, that never changed, never varied, never left. His birth into his glorious city of crime. His coronation as the clown prince of crime! More specifically, his very first battle with the bat.

(You're draped in a a red cape, with a large, metal mask obstructing your ability to move your head from side to side. The reason for you to be here changes. Sometimes you're forced, other times it's your own scheme, but it's always your first foray into crime. You're supposed to simply walk across this bridge, turn off the power, and serve as a distraction for your--henchman? people you're working for? The line's always been fuzzy, but especially here. The obvious problem, here, of course, is your bulk costume. You can barely walk straight with this giant thing on. Who's bright idea was this, you scowl?

You don't hear the Bat behind you. How could you? He's a professional, and this is your first time. He grabs your shoulder, pulling you around, and punching you in the stomach. How could you have seen it coming? He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to know. You fall to the ground, the gravity of your heavy metal mask smacking your forehead against the ground. You're on your knees, panting underneath the mask, when he picks you up by the collar, pulling you close until your face is an inch away from his.

You sniffle, crying tears heavy as bullets. You never meant for this to happen. You're a nice guy! You ramble to him, you beg him for forgiveness... you're not even the one stealing the money! They're in the other room. You take a deep breath, you smell the scent of an all-too familiar cologne, and the security alarm (that was supposed to be turned off by your power switch plan) goes off. He flings you at the railing, grabbing his grappling hook and shooting it at the ceiling. He breaks through the window to the next room to take down the real bad guys, to stop their plan and cart them away, before going back over to the masked red herring.

But that railing isn't enough protection. The bat couldn't have predicted it, but when you stumble across it, it gives way. You stumble back forwards, for a moment, saving yourself from the ultimate demise--a chemical waste bath. But of course, you're not so lucky. The cape is caught on the side of the railing. As you walk forward, it acts as a rubber hand, pulling you back, causing you to fall headfirst and face back, into the vat of chemicals. The bat returns later. He thinks he's killed you. He thinks wrong. An hour later, you crawl out of the chemical waste, with pale white skin, and bright green hair. You don't remember learning how to swim, but you suppose almost drowning can do that to a person. In fact, you don't remember anything.

Scars trace the outside of your cheeks, the sensitive flesh being the first to go. You're surprised that the rest of you didn't turn out the same... but you suppose no one can predict exactly what chemical waste can do to a person. It hurts, but somehow... somehow you enjoy the pain. It feels like a lesson. It feels like... like a joke!)

The Joker had to find clothes. He had to find a place to live. He had to find a way to make money. And he had to do it all without memories of who he was, without family, without friends, without sanity. While Bruce Wayne grieved, The Joker explored who he was, who he could be, who he wanted to be. And of course, he figured out the answers to all those questions and more the moment he saw the bat.


End file.
